Today's poem isn't mine alone, but the renga all the August writers have been working on behind the scenes together. You'll find that at the Tupelo site, and I'm afraid it's our swan song. And, of course, it's a bit of a relief to know I don't have to write a poem today, but I have to say it's been a satisfying ride.

So now everyone's gotten 30 days to peruse what's going on inside my head, and it's time to close down the blog. I'll be sorry to give up this morning chore of writing a little bit of poetry and about poetry to a sympathetic audience. Maybe I'll take it on again in some form down the road. But, right now, I'm here to announce that Gail's done the 30/30 (will wonders never cease) and survived.

I'm also here to thank those of you who supported me, especially the nineteen generous souls who donated to Tupelo in my name. You've given to a wonderful press, an organization that year after year produces beautiful, cutting edge writing and helps to keep poetry, especially, alive and well in the world. And to everyone who supported me with a "like" or a comment, I can't tell you how heartening it has been to find you out there and to get a chance to share my writing with you. Thank you, everyone. And much, much love.

I admit I was scratching for topics when I came up with this one. But I am fascinated by that state between waking and sleeping when words let go of my mind and images take over. So I tried writing into that. The poem (the next-to-last-poem) can be found at Tupelo, of course. (You've figured that out by now.) 

Between Sleeping and Waking

A picture rises, each line distinct—a jar of purple fruit,

pale flesh pressed to glass, shadows a midnight blue. Then green

shade moving, an August field I passed on Gardener Hill

and when that image stutters, I’m in a stable, watching

a horse lift her head, turn it away. In a story I don’t recognize

on some high afternoon, at the heart of a rural summer. All around me

the rustle of animals. I am looking into a broad shaft of                               and sunlight floating in the yellow air—sparks of dust. 

Titles drive me crazy. First this one was just, “Falling Asleep”, then “Dream Starter” which ended up sounding too “cute” and now it’s “Between Sleeping and Waking” which feels ham-handed. There’s a word for this stage of sleep: hypnogogia. But who’s going to read a poem titled “Hypnogogia”? Anyone out there got a suggestion? I’d be grateful.

And speaking of gratitude, I want to thank each and every one of my patrons. You guys came through with a great collection of prompts. I felt way luckier than some of my cohort who did have to rise to some pretty impenetrable challenges. A poem a day for 30 days? That was challenge enough for me. Thank you so much, friends.

My sister-in-law Kathy DiMaggio asked me to write about our family trip to Yellowstone sometime back when the kids were teens and tweens. In the photo above, you can see Kathy, my husband Tony and Arlene (the teenager) discovering the Continental Divide. Against all odds, we met every challenge with a little ingenuity and a lot of laughter, and Kathy's the one who tried the buffalo burger. We all of us love remembering that journey. The poem's called "Cross Country" and you'll find it as usual at Tupelo. 

We didn’t know what switch

would light the bedroom—

the middle kid had to show us—

or that it’s ten hours to Niagara, or that six

people in a rented camper

with three beds—

that would mean a lot of paper-rock and scissors.

We didn’t know that the youngest

would wake up with a case of puberty,

refuse to put down her book

to see the Mississippi,

but love her birthday pizza in Lake Erie.

That the Bad Lands

are a moonscape from an old movie,

When I tried to find a way into this, I couldn't escape the thought that we must have been crazy. We decided to rent a 24-foot motor home and pack into it three adults and three kids, one of them 14 and the other two 12 and then drive (in only two weeks, mind you) from CT to Yellowstone and back. On the way, we figured we could squeeze in stops at Niagara Falls, Mount Rushmore, Keystone, Devil's Tower and (unforgettably) a place called Jellystone. By all rights, we should have come home barely speaking to one another and unable to look another motor home in the face. We came home even better friends than we started, and Tony and I had bought our own tiny, second hand motor home by the time the month was out. You never can tell. 

So, thank you, Kathy, for the prompt and the pictures and the trip and everything else. And thank you, Lisa, Arlene and Tom for being such a wonderful part of the ride. The whole ride. 

This poem is a combo. First, Kay Morgan gave me the title "Blue Minded" which comes from a theory (a fact in my experience) that going for a walk on the beach will cure most cases of low spirits. Wendy Reidel asked me to write a poem using the words "saline drip", "ocean" and "tears." So I put them together and made a poem. Thank you ladies. The poem will be up soon at Tupelo, of course.

Bue Minded

When I’m an old woman tethered

to the silvery length of the saline drip, I’ll imagine

my every ocean. Thank them, for the days

I carried sadness to the sand, the long horizon, and

left it behind. Last year’s blue afternoons spent

where sharp-elbowed pelicans lifted up over the Gordon River.

The picture above is of Eastern Point Beach—the beach close to our house in Groton, CT when I was a kid. The rest of the poem visits a handful of my favorite beaches both Atlantic and Pacific. If the poem starts on a dreary note, remember I did have to find a way to get saline drip in there somewhere, and I decided I'd rather do it to myself than somebody else. Actually, the poem was fun to write. All those glimpses of water.

I'm feeling nostalgic this week, I guess. Tomorrow's piece—requested by Kathy DiMaggio—is has to recall the trip we all took when we were all much younger and raring to go. It's reminding me how fortunate I have been to travel so much of this beautiful country. 

Allow me to introduce you to Gracie, who's an important part of this poem and my daily life, though I only get to borrow her from Andy Gray and Erica Bodwell who are her real people. The poem is a self-portrait based on a piece by Adam Zagjewski. The full Monty will show up here around noon. Here's the opening. 

Self-Portrait with Dog in Winter

At 12, I said I was a child

of the summer and almost drowned

trying to swim the Miramichi River,

Now I have lived so long

I can no longer

rise from the floor without thought.

But even so, the beautiful, brown dog comes

when I call her, and lays her long head

on my knee.  I admit, silent snowfall

harasses my mood, also

calorie counts, also the memory

of my father’s death though it was

no sadder than most. No lonelier.

But lately as I fall asleep,

pictures slide in:

splintering gray porch boards,

Rose of Sharon

in an old garden. A child in a sundress

jumping rope on white sidewalks.

Is this my own life unreeling

on the screen of my almost sleep?

Have I forgotten all this beauty?

I liked Zagjewski's poem, it's random, un-curated way of trying to express identity. So I thought I'd write a self-portrait of my own and throw into it--without too much worrying about how one thing might be connected to the next--everything that's important to me at this stage of my life. I borrowed from Zagjewski the phrase “children of…” though he said, children of the sky, and the inclusion of walking through an art gallery and how that made him feel. But I found myself adding a lot of details to suggest what I experience here and now, both looking back a bit, and also living a (mostly) peaceful and happy old age. It proved to be an interesting challenge and I'm pleased with the poem. Besides, it gave me an excuse to show you a picture of Gracie. 

Thanks again for everything, folks. It's been quite a journey and I've loved most of it. I admit I am now thinking a lot about all the lovely time I plan to waste starting Aug. 31. And ice cream. I'm also thinking a lot about ice cream.

I owe this prompt to Judy Nugent, who asked me to write about a woman who finds herself so swept up in this crazed election season, and political news in general, that she might be called obsessed. No one's claiming the poem's a description of anyone in particular. But I have spotted the phenomenon. Look for "The Big Hunt" on Tupelo around mid-day. Here's the way the poem begins. 

By six am she’s scrolling

BuzzFeed and the Times, racing down

through headlines, pictures,

hunting Him, the sight

of Him grinning, fist like a hammer

above his own palm. Isn’t his hair

paler? Has the Post weighed in

on the impact of the color of his hair?

Morning and He might have tweeted

something incendiary. She needs to know

if He’s stalling out, if He’s

turning it around,

if Armageddon’s crept closer. Survey

Monkey, oh, please, Rasmussen, tell her

which lead’s expanded by

a tenth of a thousandth of a point,

Here's what made this one fun: I got to use words like BuzzFeed and Tweetstorm and Survey Monkey. I think there's an interesting tension between poetry with its long tradition of being high culture and the high-energy, edgy language of the digital news machine. I like to find an excuse to mix the two. And I also like to get a chance to go over the top, to be not quite so serious for a change. 

By the way, I'm hoping I haven’t given the impression that the character in my poem is dedicated to one party or the other. I wanted to keep that entirely open. I think media frenzy is a craziness that pops up on both sides of the aisle. And thanks, Judy, for the idea. It was fun. 

"In the Cellar of Night" is a nightmare poem based on a pair of recurring dreams I've had off and on for years. No, I don't know what they "mean" and if you do, possibly it would be kinder not to tell me. The challenge of writing the poem is to capture the mood of those particular dreams, and this is just my latest attempt. There have been others. As usual, look for the full picture on Tupelo around mid-day. 

I am always

unable. Drowning

in motion, and dragging

my hand along the walls

in the half-light. The house is always

contorted, rooms off a long hall,

each one danker more

deserted.

I’d forgotten

these rooms, how they ramble,

doors rotting, jams twisted, floors

where knuckles

of roots shatter joists

and the sound of water

darkens step by step.

For me, dream poems have two attractions. First, their surreal. Salvador Dali and all that, something twisted and familiar at the same time. Second, I am not a natural lyric poet, almost everything I write bends toward a story, but I do believe that a good poem  ought to have elements of both: fragments of narrative and at the same time intense, not explicable emotion. Which is kind of an exact description of a dream. Or, at least, of my dreams. 

So Day 24. But who’s counting. I have a feeling that when Day 30 arrives, I'll feel both relieved and a little abandoned. It has been so much fun to share poetry with you guys. I also plan to sleep for a week.